How strange to find my freeze dried, cynic heart
warmed by the presence of my fellow poets
converging on the Thames to lend support

to the idea that the poetic spirit
is expressed through so many fractured tongues.
The words fly over our heads but we hear it,

the underlying music, the slight drum
of metre. Later on, I spin off reams
of blank verse under late showing June sun

for everyday punters, who want their dreams
and anxieties welded into stanzas.
The game is simple, remember their names

and never pretend that you have the answers.


2 Comments (+add yours?)

  1. peter litton
    Jul 03, 2012 @ 23:50:33

    I wish I could have made it but I’d blown my poetry budget on two poetry nights in a week.

    I liked many of the phrases in this poem: freeze dried, cynic heart” “fractured tongues” “their dreams and anxieties welded into stanzas”


  2. maria heath
    Jul 10, 2012 @ 00:23:46

    good to see you the other night…look forward to reading more of the mundane comedy but when it is not 1.22am! (on a school night…) Maria H


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